Everybody Loves Pregnant Women

Didi’s face from two days ago – nostrils plugged with cotton, lips blue-grey – has found itself a home somewhere behind my eyes. The image fades every now and then. But only for a little while.

*

The shredded chicken and egg and cheddar and mayonnaise form a yellow-orange gloop that drips off the edges of the sandwich. I lick some of it off before taking a bite so big, my jaw complains. A click. On the left. A bit of yolk sticks to the roof of my mouth. The cheddar finds a couple of premolars to latch onto. I swallow the gloop before pushing my tongue against the egg. It feels nice, a tickle. The sandwich sliding down my throat feels even nicer. Didi’s face fades and disappears, almost, to the back of my head.

I’m tempted to use a finger to scrape the cheese off. I examine my nails. The one on my middle finger, on the right, seems the sharpest. I look up to see the waiter glance away from me to exchange a snigger with another server across the room. I imagine it’s some version of ‘look at that idiot girl, she’s not even going to finish half of it’. Fifteen minutes ago, I’d wanted to punch the pompous asshole when he had declared, ‘The special club sandwich will be too large. I recommend the roasted chicken sandwich.’

I’m used to it though. When you’re small-boned with a 5’2” frame, you are expected to be able to stomach slim, single-layer sandwiches only. Cucumber and tomato. Fresh ‘garden’ veggies. Butter and green mint chutney. Cheese but the kind where they slap a single square of yellow between two white bread slices. Cold and light. Petite.

I shove a couple of fries into my mouth. Maybe the edges will push the cheddar off the teeth. Or it’ll all ugly-coagulate and I’ll pry it off later.

I think of Didi’s sticker idea. ‘Eating for two, it must say. With a few hearts scribbled on it or a picture of a toothless baby. And you must slap it on your chest. Where everybody can see it. Then you can eat whatever you want. As much as you like. Nobody says no to pregnant women.’

The memory of it makes me chortle. A piece of bread flies out my mouth. I quickly use a paper napkin to mask my laugh. I’m not providing the Asshole Waiters Association any more joy at my expense.

*

I’m three and sniffling in Didi’s lap. She’s painting her nails at the dining table. There’s a bowl of soup in front of her. My cheeks are streaked with just-dried tears, the fresh wound on my right knee smeared with goo-coloured Betadine ointment. Didi is the youngest of my dad’s four siblings; Dad’s the oldest. My parents were at work all day and came back home just before dinner and my grandparents, very old and very ill, spent most of their hours in bed, so baby-sitting duties fell onto Didi.

She pauses from the nail-painting to have some soup. Tomato. There are far too many croutons on the surface; you can barely see the soup. When she picks up a spoonful that’s more croutons, less soup, I open my mouth expectantly. She places a crouton on my tongue. My eyes light up and I break into a giggle. It’s the moment, she proclaimed every time she narrated the incident.

*

I’m fifteen and I’ve barged into her room after school, in tears. She’s in bed, eating French toast. Her face is swollen, dark bags weighing her eyes down. The eggy bread slathered with honey adds a dense sweetness to the room. There are hints of vanilla and cinnamon.

Didi, at the time, had been married to Siddharth for a year. She still used to come over some weekends. One such weekend, I overheard Mum tell her that newly-weds should spend their weekends with their husbands. When I asked Mum the next morning why she’d said that, she snapped at me, saying I shouldn’t be asking questions whose answers I wouldn’t understand.

I sit down, cross-legged, facing Didi. She beckons me to take a bite. In my mouth, the egg and the honey and the cinnamon and the vanilla fuse with the bread to form a thick balm that slides down my throat, numbing my body’s tear-production system. When I manage to finally pull myself away from the bread, I find her smiling.

‘Feels good, doesn’t it?’

I only manage a nod before going back for more.

She responds with a knowing smile and tears off a bit for herself.

‘It soaks up how horrible you’re feeling,’ she says matter-of-factly.

*

I’d met Siddharth for the first time at their wedding. He was tall and built like a mountain. You could see his gums and all his teeth when he laughed. It was my favourite thing about him. His teeth were very white. Every time he laughed, his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. For years, I believed that’s what powered the laughter. That there was a fierce little ball in his throat that motored his laughs, making them as loud as they were. His laughs were contagious too. If you heard him laugh, you were forced to laugh too.

My parents often spoke of Didi’s kids of the future. How they hoped the children would take after Siddharth because she could not possibly have found herself a better husband. So handsome. So intelligent. So successful. A gentleman. A gentleman who agreed to marry Didi even though she was so old at the time. 34. That Didi was so lucky to be married to him.

I told Didi about the throat-ball one weekend when she was over. How I was such an idiot for believing that’s why he laughed like he did. We were eating bread upma in her room.

A weight descended onto her shoulders and slithered down to her fingers as she held the spoon and sifted through the fried bread. The heft of her movement along with the heady aroma of the curry leaves, ginger and fried onion, made me anxious. I worried that I’d said something I shouldn’t have.

‘You’re very, very beautiful. He’s lucky to have you,’ I blurted. She burst out laughing. After a big spoonful, she told me that he laughed like he did because he was very strong. I didn’t know how to respond, so I nodded.

She was smiling but the weight remained.

‘When you’re that strong, you can do whatever you want,’ she said before pushing the bowl towards me.

‘Eat fast or I’ll finish it all.’

*

The bread of the club sandwich is just right. Firm enough to hold all the layers in. Appropriately toasted. Perfect crunch.

The fridge at home is always stocked with at least two kinds of butter and two jams. The ones I like best are a smooth peanut butter and a slow-churned garlic butter that Didi liked to slather very generously onto egg sandwiches before toasting them. A mixed fruit jam is a staple too. As is a chunky pineapple preserve. Sometimes, there’s a mustard mayonnaise that I like a lot.

Didi’s salami-mustard sandwich is still one of my favourites. The first time she’d made one was when I had told her how R used to whistle at me during lunch break before licking his lips all over. He sometimes did it in class as well. A PBJ was reliable too. Especially on Fridays. Fridays were when we had to wear the all-white tunics to school. C made sure she came over to my desk first thing in the morning and called me a fat white pillow. Sometimes, she told me I should just stay at home because my ugly face made her angry.

*

I break off an edge of the sandwich to mop up some more of the gloop. Would I prefer this over Didi’s hung-curd sandwiches though? I doubt it. The first time I’d had one of those, I had told her about some school nonsense and how I believed I was ugly as hell. She had held me close for a long time and had then brought me the sandwich. Lightly toasted white bread, hung curd, salt, pepper, a tiny bit of paprika and lots of crushed salted potato chips, all sandwiched in.

*

I had woken up one Sunday to the sound of Dad roaring at Didi. Something about how humiliated he felt. And how ashamed my grandparents would have been had they been around. Then, Mum had joined in to tell Didi that she must stop neglecting her duties as a wife. Didi had been crying. I hadn’t been able to make out her words. After that day, she stopped coming over on the weekends. When I asked Mum about it, she told me to mind my business.

When Didi paid us a visit almost a year later, it was to announce that she was pregnant. She had a big smile on but I noticed the weight. It had returned to her arms. In the way they moved when Mum and Dad hugged her and told her how proud and excited they were. In the way she raised the cup of tea to her lips, in the way her hands rested in her lap as she listened to my Mum’s list of pregnancy dos and don’ts. I asked her if I could make her a sandwich. Before she could respond, Mum shooed me away. Didi flashed me a smile and told me she would stay over the coming weekend.

When I saw her the next Saturday, the weight had spread. It didn’t just burden her arms anymore, it added a leaden slouch to her shoulders as well. A slowness had crept into her walk and the edges of her lips sagged when she smiled.

In the afternoon, while my parents napped, I made some French toast. I insisted she take the first bite. I asked her if she was alright. She said she liked the nutmeg I’d used instead of the cinnamon. She also liked the powdered sugar I’d sprinkled on top. After two more bites, she spoke.

‘Do you think you’d like to have kids one day?’

I had never thought of it. I told her so.

‘Yeah, me neither,’ she said. ‘But being pregnant is awesome.’ That’s when she brought up the sticker, and we laughed.

*

I call the waiter over to ask for some mustard. His eyes shift to my plate. I’m two bites away from finishing the sandwich. He puts the mustard down and asks me if I need anything else. Mr Asshole’s imperious grin seems to have been replaced by a frown of disbelief. I say no, I don’t need anything else. I hold the sandwich by its side and pour the mustard in.

I wonder which butter she had used to toast the sandwich. The one half-eaten in her room when Siddharth had found her too late. I hope it was the slow-churned garlic. I don’t even know what kind of sandwich it was. Chicken? Potatoes? I should get Mum to ask Siddharth. I wonder if he also believes that my niece would have liked sandwiches too. Mum should ask him about that too. I like to believe it was a little girl.